


Corpus Culpa

by unorthodoxCreativity



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, One-Sided Relationship, Oral Sex, Sibling Incest, Stanford Era, Voyeurism, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-09
Updated: 2012-08-09
Packaged: 2017-11-11 19:43:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/482196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unorthodoxCreativity/pseuds/unorthodoxCreativity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean drives out to Stanford to check on Sam for the anniversary of their mother's death. He finds him at a Halloween party and learns a few things about them both that he won't be forgetting anytime soon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corpus Culpa

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this at work not three feet from my manager. Sometimes I wonder if I have a problem, but then I ignore it and continue writing.
> 
> On the title, since it's a poorly cobbled together Latin phrase: corpus culpa in this context means "body of fault" or "body of sin." 
> 
> (Please no mention of spoilers for later in the series, I'm still only halfway through Season 2! <3)

It’s not the first time you’ve been here, sitting in the Impala under the cover of darkness. You still can’t believe it hides you from Sammy, not really. You’ve turned off the engine, and the silence permeates as you stare across the street at the brightly-lit townhouse, buzzing with sorority and fraternity bees.

Under ordinary circumstances, you’d be letting your eyes wander, taking in the scantily-clad witches and nurses – Halloween is still your favorite holiday for that reason – but your heart isn’t in it tonight. An hour of careful stalking and you still haven’t caught a close enough glimpse of him. You need to see him laughing, enjoying himself; more for your sake than his, if you’re being honest with yourself. You drove like a season-appropriate bat out of Hell to get here before the second, hadn’t anticipated getting here this early, hadn’t thought out a plan once you found yourself placed strongly in Palo Alto’s lush terrain.

You won’t actually intrude in his life; you never do. You know you should feel creepy, keeping your eyes on him from the shadows, but it’s what works for you, fits into your own idea that this is about keeping Sammy safe, and not your own unwarranted needs that you’re doing a bang-up job ignoring, thanks.

The leather of the steering wheel bites against your slowly clenching and unclenching hands, costumed sluts coming and going draped on under-dressed douchebags’ arms. You can’t see well enough through the dark. Every figure on the lawn is a garish silhouette against the lighted windows. It’s even harder to see inside, past the messily strewn cobwebs and bat-shaped stick-ons.

A frustrated grunt pushes out of your lungs, forehead bumped lightly against Baby’s wheel. Can’t do anything sitting here like a useless sack of shit. You never felt like you accomplished anything while sitting around. You’re a movement kind of guy, a get-out-there-and-get-shit-done dude.

You’re careful not to slam her door as you step out into the pitch of night. Nobody pays you any attention as you skulk forward, boots rasping against the damp grass of the lawn. You’re thinking of catching a drunk kid off guard and stealing his mask so you can push your way through the party crowd without being recognized by the only person who truly matters here.

The party hums in your center, and in another life you’d be inside, chatting up a couple girls, getting lucky even before you get sloshed. Not Sammy’s kind of scene, or maybe just not his thing when you’re around; how much of himself did he keep from you? This party puts a spin on everything you thought you knew about your baby brother, and maybe, despite everything, you never truly knew anything about him at all.

That thought sends an electric chill through your bones, and your jaw clenches. There’s no way you don’t know Sam. No one knows him like you do, inside and out.

Getting impatient, you hop up the stairs, old wood creaking under your weight. The porch is lit with a few small jack-o-lanterns. Frustrated and lonely, you just want to kick their jagged grins in.

The porch wraps around the side of the house. You follow it, hoping for a less conspicuous entry. Just as you’d thought, there’s a side door next to a smaller set of stairs headed into the back garden area. Casual, careful, you head for the door and –

It opens, a couple drunk guys stumbling out, and your heart clenches, forgets to beat for a moment: one of them is Sammy, even though you can’t see well, it’s him, you’d know that laugh anywhere, that height and grace even in his drunken stumbling. You scramble down the small stairs before they notice you, curses silent and heavy on your tongue as you find a bush to crouch behind.

They’re so drunk, you think, eyes trained carefully on Sammy’s face, and then his hands. He’s giggling, clutching the other boy’s stomach, palm flat against the expanse of muscle. You feel something clench within you again, dissolved by some protective fire that always arises when you’re around Sam.

They settle against the wall, bathed gently by the house lights. A lump clings in your throat. Sam’s wearing next to nothing, just a pair of tight hot pants and some god-awful black wings, and fuck, he has on a thick line of eyeliner, eyes practically glowing in their frames. This is not a Sam you recognize or know, and yet it is: that easy way he leans against the red slats of wood, lending a curling smile to the boy standing way too close, some smaller blond, petite for a guy, dressed as a cowboy, sans shirt. He turns, leans closer to Sam to whisper something, and you practically choke on your tongue – he’s wearing assless chaps, who the fuck does he think he is, and then Sam laughs an easy laugh and leans in to cover the boy’s mouth with his.

If it had been a short kiss, you could pretend it hadn’t happened, but there’s a real insistence in the way their lips slide together, and when Sam’s tongue darts out to part into the blond’s mouth you can’t help the strangled cough that splatters against the leaves hiding you from view.

They pause and you don’t dare breathe, pulse thudding the beat of the frantic lack of understanding that you’re currently trying to make sense of. There’s no way Sam kisses boys, and yet there it is, practically showcased by the light from the window they’re next to.

Sam looks around briefly, then shrugs. He’s out of practice. You hear something you investigate, not palm the guy’s crotch and fuck his mouth with your tongue. Jesus, you can’t handle this train wreck, but it’s impossible to look away, like some invisible cord holds your eyes taut against Sam’s mouth. His cherry lips are seared into your retinas, debauched and greedy. There’s an uncomfortable, throbbing pressure in your pants, but you don’t dare unzip, not when they could hear so easily, and Sam had to know it was you, and how fucked up is this, sitting in a bush and watching your baby brother make out with another dude as you desperately palm yourself through your jeans, lip bit practically through in the need for silence?

Their kisses are sloppy, inebriated and uncoordinated. Your lips burn to correct Sam’s technique, and woah, where the fuck did that come from? You’re about to tell yourself screw it, bug out of there way before schedule, because clearly Sammy’s doing fine and you are really not, but then the boy pulls away and drops to his knees, and in unison you and your brother gasp out an ‘oh my god’ and the perfect view of Sam’s kiss-drunk face is going to kill you, it really is.

Sam’s fingers fumble through the blond’s hair as he pulls the hot pants down to Sam’s knees, no thought for embarrassment. You should really not be looking, but you are, Sam’s gorgeous cock flushed where it bobs against the fuzz on his stomach, and that is something you never should have thought. The denim of your jeans grinds painfully against you, your entire center reduced to nothing but a throbbing needy heat. Shame and arousal swirl over your vision until they’re unrecognizable from each other. Your harsh breaths are in time with his as the boy takes him down, all the way down, and Sam’s resulting groan is almost enough to make you cream yourself right now like some kind of oversexed teenager.

Everything about this situation is wrong. Blood a deep percussion in your ears, echoed in the strong metronome throb between your legs, and there’s no way anyone could hear over that, all that internal noise so you find yourself unzipping, October air biting against your abused flesh, the heat and hard calluses of your hand an immediate contrast that stings your eyes with tears. Your eyes train on Sam’s face, feel the tight coil of revulsion at yourself. It’s your baby brother that’s doing this to you, pulling the dark and sinful side of yourself out in the open. Stuff you thought was buried so deep even you forgot it was there in the first place.

Sam’s barely standing, knees quivering where they’re bound by the elastic fabric of his pants. Tiny mewls of pleasure burst out of him as the boy bobs, sucks him down, coos over the length. You want to be there, support his weight, let your fingertips trace his graceful lines and curves, burn every part of him into your fingertips forever because this is a one-time deal, you know, and your pace on yourself quickens. You don’t even have the excuse of being drunk, like Sammy is. You are completely fucking sober, yanking one out at night here like a seasoned stalker.

Sam suddenly gasps, eyes and mouth wide, trained right at you, and you freeze, blood dead halt and pressing against your veins, needing out, but he’s just unfocused and tense and then lets out a low, sultry moan as he finishes against the boy’s face, and you’re done, you’re just done, no way you can stop it when he was looking right at you like that.

Thoroughly disgusted with yourself, you tuck back in and sneak away, stumbling over nothing but the sinkhole of guilt that has swallowed your stomach. Your come is drying, sticky and cold, against the back of your hand, staining all the way to the bone.

It’s no wonder Sam left.

No one deserves a brother as fucked up as you are.

Worst part of it is, you know you won’t be able to call up anything but those beautifully rimmed eyes anymore. You don’t actually know if you want to jack off to anything else, not after that show.

The Impala gleams dully as you reach her, fumbling with your keys. The leather seat is a forgiving shush as you slide in behind the wheel, and she purrs beneath you as you turn her engine, a comfort you sorely needed.

Damn, you need a goddamn drink. Or ten. Maybe whiskey can burn the sickness out of you.

Somehow, you doubt it.


End file.
